


Potentia

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Series: Past-Tense [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Childbirth, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg Birth, Nesting, World War II, graphic childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a day like any other, a district nurse-midwife is led to a hidden basement chamber where she finds an omega in labor - hardly realizing that, under the veneer of normality, this particular birth is one of the most uncommon she will ever attend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potentia

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching way too much "Call The Midwife,"and then this happened. Guess I just wrote it for my own amusement. :p
> 
> If you like, think of this as what could/should have happened if Bucky hadn't fallen off the train in "Past-Tense."

A year and eight months of training, two months of actually catching babies as a fully registered midwife, and yet Joyce Muriel Pritchard still had less than the faintest idea of what she was doing.

Not to say she didn’t enjoy her work – newborns were a joy, fragile, innocent, and needing to be protected, and the happiness of newly minted parents was always infectious – merely that in the short time allotted after her transfer from Weymouth to bomb-speckled London, it had become startlingly clear that there was not and never would be such a thing as an average birth. Many elements and considerations came together, often without sense or reason, to create a situation unlike every and any other, and her duty was to bring the omega, the baby, and lastly herself through the whole (often) bloody business unscathed. Married, unmarried, female, male, the details were not her concern – yet it didn’t mean she couldn’t be touched by the simple emotion of it all, whether melancholy, indifference, delight, or grief. Birth itself was simple. The aftermath was not.

 

Dinner consisted plainly of water and a plate of potato floddies – hardly high cuisine, or strictly healthy (the head matron would never have approved) but when on first call after nine p.m. something quick and simple was required, and the first year midwives could be relied on to stick up for each other. Another greasy bite melted sinfully in her mouth as she savored the peace of several quiet minutes – only to be shattered moments later when Matron Brennan’s distinctive click-clacking shoes could be heard against the scrubbed tile. Joyce could have counted the seconds during the short-lived silence.

“- the young lady made it quiet clear that discretion was necessary – sounded rather a posh little thing, and I don’t believe she was using a street telephone-“

“Did she seem well along?” Joyce managed to choke out, swallowing down a mouthful and wiping away the last traces of grease from her lips as they scurried down the gleaming corridor.

“Oh, she’s not havin’ the baby – a friend, she says – but I tell you, nurse, that’s not the oddest half of the business.”

“And that would be -?”

The matron chewed at her lined lips a moment, small eyes glancing both ways down the hall, as if on watch for eavesdroppers.

“… Number one, Horse Guards Road.”

Joyce blinked a moment, confused, before realization struck.

“The treasury?!”

“An’ that’s not all, if the gossip’s to be believed. No matter – likely some lady clerk or a paper boy who’s got themselves in trouble.”

“Yes…”

A metal door swung open, admitting the two women to a spacious anteroom – dozens of crimson jumpers lined the wall, each hanging on it’s own labeled hook.

“Usual kit should do you fine – extra linens in case of a chap-“

“Of course –“ Joyce chirped back, shrugging into her sweater before shoving a pair of well-worn pins into her dark hair.

“Remember to keep your head, and don’t let the high-ends bully you – all mouth and no trousers, the lot of them –“

“Matron-!”

“Well what’re you dawdlin’ for, off you go!”

Still blushing slightly – Brennan’s somewhat colorful language was still not an aspect of hospital life she was perfectly at ease with – Joyce shoved her cap on, snatched up a delivery kit from the shelf by the door, and hurried outside to her waiting bicycle.

 

*

 

The treasury was an imposing building of white stone with more windows than could be counted, and paired with it’s grand façade of pillars and the corner towers the entire edifice could be well mistaken as a palace. Considering, the tiny public entrance to the side was something of a disappointment, the gates stacked high with sandbags and at least ten soldiers posted on guard.

Joyce brought her bicycle to a hesitant stop on the pavement, biting at the inside of her cheek. Should she ask the men at the door? Simply wait until she was fetched? Time was of the essence, and newborns were often infamous for their impatience.

“Nurse?”

Allowing herself a sigh of relief, Joyce turned to pluck the cardboard box off the back of the bike, just as a rather pretty dark-haired woman with red lipstick (that she must have spent weeks saving her ration cards for) and two uniformed men came down the marbled steps to meet her.

“Should be all ready, now where’s –“

“Sorry, but here’s where we come in.” the brunette cut across, nodding to the men beside her, and before Joyce could so much as scream she found her eyes blinded by dark fabric and her arms held securely at her sides as she was frogmarched up the steps and presumably through the door.

“ _What-?!_ ”

“Please forgive the theatricality,” came the woman’s soft yet decisive tones yet again. “Usually we’ve a doctor on call for this sort of thing, but he’s been dispatched to Norway with the rest – meaning, for now, the local midwifery is our only viable option. Your chapter is said to be some of the best in the business, yes?”

The young woman spluttered a moment, trying to make sense of it all as she was led down yet another long flight of stairs and through what felt to be a particularly large corridor, given the echo of their footsteps.

“All you need know at this very moment is that you’re standing inside one of the most heavily fortified buildings this side of the Atlantic – even Roosevelt isn’t aware this place exists, and frankly I’m not so certain about Churchill either.”

They turned a sharp corner – water could be heard dripping somewhere nearby, reinforcing the growing imagery of some kind of hidden dungeon, the nausea growing in her belly. Had she done something illegal, betrayed the nation, the king, the prime minister, the army, the church, the – a whirlwind of possibilities flew through her brain until she felt dizzy, the words of her guide hardly comprehendible any longer.

“- Both parents are high ranking members of the SSR Defense Division – do you know what that stands for?”

“Er, no –“

“Good – then I don’t need to reassure you of the need for complete confidentiality – once it’s confirmed that your services are no longer required, you will be fully debriefed, required to sign a number of nondisclosure forms to be filed jointly with the United States war department and MI6, and after which you will be searched by a female officer and returned to your post –“

They finally came to a halt, and before the speech had concluded the bag was yanked from over her head; both hands instantly flew up to right her crooked glasses before they tumbled from her face.

“- I believe that’s everything – all clear, Nurse…?” she trailed off, and it took several stunned seconds before Joyce realized the silence was expectant.

“P-Pritchard – “ she finally managed to spit out, the color still gone from her face. “N-Nurse Joyce Pritchard of the Mother Mary Immaculate Hospital of London, Midwifery and prenatal care!”

The lady officer seemed somewhat impressed for a moment, one perfectly groomed eyebrow turned in an upward arch, before she appeared to catch herself.

“Well – in you go then,” she nodded towards the thick steel door at the side, before holding out the still pristine delivery kit, much to the nurse’s surprise.

One of the uniformed men swung the door open quickly, and the first thing to strike was the familiar, sickly sweet scent of an amniotic rupture - not as hungering as a heat scent, more bodily. It washed through her senses a moment, sweeping away the grit and fumes of the road and the mustiness of the tunneling corridors, and gradually instilling an awareness of calm – as pervasive as a drug if she let it overtake her. Resistance to childbed heat was one of the earliest steps of midwifery training.

Joyce allowed her eyelids to flutter for a second or two, forcing herself back into perspective, the false sensation of wellbeing lifting to give way to rising horror and indignation.

The whole room was a veritable hotbed for disease, moisture dripping down the stone walls, mold growing on the floor in a corner. The only source of light came from a weak electric bulb dangling from a cord in the ceiling, just barely illuminating the dark-haired male omega slumped awkwardly on what appeared to be, appallingly, a camp cot.

“You call this a birthing room-?!”

“Yes, well we were caught somewhat on the hop,” the lady officer mentioned coolly from the doorway, before the omega gave a moan.

It was a strange sort of reversal – that the dark mysterious corridors of barely a moment ago should give way to something that was now, if she truly cared to admit it, as familiar as breathing.

“Well it can’t be helped now – if there’s such a thing as a stove in this… this pit, get it fired up and boil me plenty of hot water – and knock when you come back, the best thing now is a little peace and quiet!”

The woman nodded with an infuriating little half smile, and motioned her guards out before closing the door behind her.

“Right…” the nurse muttered, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, before kneeling next to the fold out. Someone had thankfully had the foresight to cover it up with an almost clean linen sheet, though by now it had nearly been soaked through by the waters, as were the clothes he’d apparently stripped out of and arranged instinctively into a clumsy nest, leaving himself in only a thin army issue sleeveless shirt.

“Breathe for me – that’s it, deep breaths…” she murmured gently, catching one of his clenched fists and tightening her own fingers around it.

“I’m Joyce Muriel – you?”

His eyelids tightened a moment, teeth sinking into his already swollen lower lip until the contraction seemed to pass and he gasped for breath.

“B-Barnes, James Buchannan, miss…”

She offered up a soft smile, along with a reassuring squeeze.

“’Right then Jamie, I’m going to need you to get off your bottom and turn onto your knees – we can’t get baby out if the door’s been blocked.”

He managed a weak smile, quickly replaced by an anxious grimace as his legs shifted, jolting something internal.

“There we go – just turn slowly, turn – “

Another heavy groan, and James managed to plant both hands on the bed frame, sucking in one enormous breath at a time.

“Well done! Well done now… I’m sorry if it feels a little awkward, there’s not much dignity in childbirth –“

To her relief, he huffed out a laugh.

“Come on, doll – how’d you think I got like this?”

Joyce smiled despite herself, gloved hands slipping under his drenched shirt and kneading gently at his swollen stomach.

“It’s positioned correctly – now, you might feel some… discomfort, as the birth canal starts to expand…”

By now she had resorted to simply trying to speak over the moaning, her fingers still gently mapping out the lay.

“’Feels a bit large, Jamie – just focus on breathing, it’ll help it come a bit slower and minimize tearing –“

“No wonder – his dad’s built like a god-damn brick house – _OWW-!_ ”

“You’re not exactly a dainty yourself – don’t push, don’t push yet, deep breaths – that’s it, in, out…”

 

*

 

“There’s the head, it’s crowning – we’re nearly there-!”

Her only answer was a frustrated sob as James yelled himself hoarse, both arms trembling with the effort to keep his torso upright.

Thinking quickly, Joyce ripped off her sweater and tied a sleeve to one of the thick hooks imbedded in the wall, letting the rest dangle by his shoulders.

“Just give that a pull if it’s too much – you’re doing so well Jamie, so well – Stevie’d be so proud of you –“

It wasn’t unusual for an omega in labor to mention their mate – particularly if said mate was noticeably absent. Something to do with bonding psychology, or so certain scientists had said. She’d learned more about this non-attending alpha in the previous hour than she could have over six weeks of tea and biscuits.

An acrid stench suddenly cut through the syrupy sweetness, and she noticed the line of his back go tense as both recognized the smell as blood.

“Wha-wha’s hap’ning…?”

“Not to worry – just the crowning. Gentle pushes now…” She swallowed uncomfortably, allowing one hand to drift down to the base of his belly, the other feeling gently along the perineum. Seemed low enough… although it was never easy to tell with males, thanks to the curve of the birth canal – nature always made things bally difficult.

He let out several distressed whines, before suddenly roaring out as she felt something shift under her hand. The lower glove came away bloody, and she had to bite back a sudden rush of all too familiar panic.

“Alright – Jamie? I need you to rise up, onto your knees, high as you can – the placenta’s giving way, I need to get this baby out _now_ …”

Both his legs shook as he pulled himself up by the fabric, sobbing helplessly, elbows leaning against the wall as she spread out the towels under his hips.

“Good lad -! Now pant – pant – don’t push, don’t push Jamie, just focus on your breathing, baby’s head needs to come out slowly – that’s it, well done! Now, on the next contraction -!”

The scream slipped past gritted teeth as every muscle bore down, and nearly three seconds later a red-covered, wriggling little shape slid wetly free and straight into Joyce’s waiting hands. James slumped back down to the bed.

The baby started squalling instantly, just as a thick scent of sugary pastry – a half forgotten luxury – and something like freshly made toffee chased away the odor of viscera.

“Little girl, tiny and perfect – scent’s a bit like cake!” she laughed happily, as the infant continued to wail, her little limbs flailing against the openness and sudden cold.

Joyce’s father (an omega maternity nurse himself) had always said newborns were the most common miracle – and with every birth she understood better. The crying continued – from midwife and baby – until the squirming little body had been wrapped up in the last clean towel and laid over her father’s heaving chest.

Eventually James managed to catch his breath, one arm coming up weakly to cradle the baby in close as the exhausted tears started to dry.

“Got Daddy’s eyes, huh?” he murmured faintly, his face resting against the top of her scalp. “’s gonna spoil you rotten when he comes home, sweetie – gonna make you a _princess_ …”

He glanced down to Joyce with a faint smirk, which quickly turned her attention back to the slow stream of blood oozing across the thin sheets.

“Just waiting for the rest of the afterbirth –“

“’Had the best nap of my life with Stevie.” he mumbled, giving no indication of having heard her at all.

“We never had nothin’ growing up – ‘s just us… my best guy all the way through, even when he wasn’t nothin’ but a little runt in the street pickin’ fights with whatever moved… an’ then he came for me, wouldn’ let me up and die like I should’ve – i’s total lust though… he had shoulders on him like nobody’s business –“

She beamed, letting him ramble happily.

“What was he, a docker?”

For some reason, the dazed smile on his face warped to a startled grin, and finally dissolved into helpless laughter.

“P-paper boy.”

*

Not half an hour after parent and child were settled, the brunette officer and her two uniformed goons were back again; one of them brusquely handed Joyce her now thoroughly destroyed jumper before hustling her towards the door.

“All went well, I hope?” the dark haired woman called after her.

“Perfectly-!” Joyce barely had time to shout back before the bag was shoved over her head yet again. As she was piloted out, she barely managed to catch a few faint words –

“Telegram from Dugan at the safe zone – they’ll have him here in about an hour.”

“…Thanks…”

The door slammed shut with a ring of metal, and she heard nothing more.

 

*

 

Nurses often received small tokens from patients, little signs of gratitude for compassion when it was most needed. By the time Joyce found any kind of souvenir of the escapade (which she had assured all her curious colleagues had involved, disappointingly, nothing more than a lady under-secretary experiencing false contractions,) the entire war-time incident had faded to a distant, five-year past memory.

As it was, she couldn’t help but smile in quiet satisfaction when she slit open the envelope and the photo slid free – a little dark-haired girl smiling sweetly over a plate of ice cream, her parents kneeling at either side of the chair with wide grins; both men whole and hale, thank God.

Also enclosed was a small sheet of yellow paper, the simple kind a child might draw on; written in a charmingly clumsy, overlarge script was a badly spelled translation of the words:

_Thank you._

_Josephine Rogers._

 

Every story had a beginning, middle, and ultimately an end, Joyce reflected silently as she tucked the letter and photograph away into a particular drawer of her too-tiny desk.

The middle was the choice of the individual, the end a matter best left to heaven. But, all things considered, helping to turn the first page wasn’t truly that difficult a task.

The telephone down the hall rang yet again, and with a tired grin Joyce forced herself to her feet, and out the bedroom door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you watch "Call The Midwife", Joyce was essentially an amalgam of Jenny and Chummy.
> 
> This was the visual inspiration for Josephine in 1950, when she would've been about five years old:
> 
> She was named after Steve's father, Joseph Rogers.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr!](http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com)
> 
> For those of you still waiting on the rest of "Past-Tense" rest assured that it's coming along, slowly!
> 
> Thanks for reading and be sure to review!!!


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